At the end of the song, Natalie returned to the podium carrying a book and her folder of notes, along with a packet of tissues. With an excess of care, she opened the book and lowered the mic. “I’m Natalie,” she said. “Blythe’s daughter.”

Almost immediately, her throat was clogged by tears that scalded her with pain. She started to panic, because she desperately wanted to be heard. Big swallow. Deep breath. She had awakened early this morning in order to practice getting through her piece without falling apart. One recommended technique was to squeeze the flesh between her index finger and thumb as hard as she could, letting the pinch remind her to keep it together.

“Books were my mother’s world, but she was mine. We lived in the apartment above the shop, and every day with my mom was an adventure. We didn’t travel far on vacations because of the shop.”

Natalie used to beg to travel the world the way her friends did on school holidays—Disneyland, Hawaii, London, Japan. Instead, her mom would take her on flights of the imagination to Prince Edward Island, to Sutter’s Mill, to Narnia and Sunnybrook Farm, to outer space and Hogwarts.

She tried her best to bring her mother back to life with a few key anecdotes and memories smeared by tears. And then she looked down at the page she’d read many times growing up—from The Minpins by Roald Dahl. “The first time my mother read this book to me was after a visit to the Claymore Arboretum. I was five years old, and I believed the dragonflies were fairies, and that tiny sprites rode around on the backs of songbirds. She let me go on thinking that for as long as I pleased. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s the best parenting advice ever.”

She breathed in, imagining the comfortable scent of her mother’s bathrobe as they snuggled together for their nightly story. She breathed out, hoping her words would somehow touch her mother one more time.

“‘And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.’”

Natalie closed the book and hugged it to her chest the way she used to do as a child. When she spoke again, her voice was surprisingly, gratifyingly steady. “I could keep you here all day with stories about my mother,” she said. “Mom wouldn’t have liked that, though. She always believed we’re all capable of living our own stories, and nothing else can compare to that. So I will leave you with this: thank you.”

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